


The Same Coin

by karmula



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dialogue, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Recall, Slow Burn, sooo much dialogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-02-08 09:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12861252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmula/pseuds/karmula
Summary: The infamous geneticist Moira O'Deorain suddenly surrenders to the newly-reformed Overwatch, and Angela Ziegler is charged with finding out why.





	1. Chapter 1

Angela couldn’t sleep.

This was not atypical for Dr. Angela Ziegler. The doctor had endured many sleepless nights, lamenting the cruelty of the night sky from within the small porthole that lit her quarters. She had often wished that the starlight outside would suffocate her, in the hope that she could avoid such torment again.

The wish was in vain. Daybreak always found her.

Stranger than her insomnia was its cause; the brilliant scientist Moira O’Deorain, an ex-colleague and defected Overwatch agent, returned despite her exclusion from the recall. Surrendered and to be detained here, in this very building, of her own volition. And she hadn’t spoken to a soul in the world but one since her arrival: the superior officer charged with her capture, Captain Amari. Even then, Ana was witness only to one word.

“Angela.”

The implication was obvious. Angela only had to close her eyes to see the sly curl of O’Deorain’s lips, closed around a thinly-veiled threat. “Bring her to me. Then I talk.”

This is how she finds herself slipping through the halls in only a silken shift, the pads of her bare feet noiseless against the floor. The tile underfoot alternates between just-cleaned and dust-coated from disuse as she passes rooms that stood empty in the Gibraltar base for decades, their doorways still virginal with the seal of time, yet to be broken into since Overwatch’s return.

The hallway to the holding cells in the underground section of the base is one such area, shrouded in musty grey but for the three sets of footprints tracked into the floor ahead. Moving forward, two people enter; returning, only one person leaves.

The room itself is dark as pitch thanks to the complete lack of windows, made of blue brick and filled with row upon row of vertical bars, interrupted at regular intervals by the chunk of lock that indicates the presence of a gate. Only now, in this cavernous place so heavily insulated that she can hear her own blood rushing through her veins, does Angela realise she is all but gasping for breath.

The heave-rush of oxygen exchange stops altogether when Angela spies the light at the end of the tunnel, first shimmering gold and then bright violet. The semi-circle flares, pulses once, and then extinguishes itself before blazing again.

Angela takes a deep breath, concentrating for a moment on taming the frantic pace of her heart, and steps into the light.

Life as a fugitive has aged her. This is the first thing Angela notices. The creases at either side of her thin mouth, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, the furrows in her forehead, faint but steadfastly there, an ever-present frown. Perhaps the yellow and purple lights flickering at her fingertips exacerbate the changes, but still, this is a different woman from the one Angela knew so intimately all those years ago.

Different, and yet absolutely the same, all at once.

“Resurrection, Angela. You’ve perfected it.” Moira’s Irish brogue is steeped in admiration, so genuine it makes Angela’s heart hurt. This woman was a true scientist, a pioneer of so many advancements it would make any layman’s tongue sting to list. Her talents, her skill, far surpassed even her own. This virtue, her unquenchable thirst for knowledge, was the same vice which made her so impossibly dangerous.

“Nothing is perfect,” Angela replies coldly. She realises that this moment is proof of that. Reunion, something which has always felt sweet, now embittered by the evil imprisoned before her. Tainted, dirty. It makes her sick.

Moira shrugs, gesturing as if to brush the retort away. “Don’t be humble. It seems good enough for battle, in any case, so well-functioning you’ve made it a permanent program in your Valkyrie suit. Guardian-angel in, resurrect, guardian-angel out. Reliable enough to have clocked over fifty uses, if my memory serves, with more than one spent on a certain Amari. Not Ana, I would recognise her data... Fareeha?”

Angela’s breath catches in her throat, her stomach lurching unsteadily, but she quickly composes herself. It only takes a moment for her to process how dangerous it would be for those closest to her, for Fareeha, to risk revealing the nature of their relationship to this woman. Moira has never been afraid to exploit weakness, wherever she finds it. No doubt this is why Talon has found her such an asset to their organisation in recent years.

“Why did you come back, O’Deorain?”

“Why, I had to see for myself, of course.” Something in her voice suggests she means more than just Angela’s innovations. The doctor wipes her palms on her thighs, never dropping her gaze from the fire-haired woman sprawled on the bench in front of her. So casual, so unafraid. Angela should present herself in the same way, she knows, to give herself the upper hand. She doesn’t have a hope of doing so; this she also knows.

“You’ve come so far, Angela. Where I used to be impressed, I find myself floored. Your developments in your field have been remarkable. Not to mention what you did to that Japanese boy, the use you made of the body available to you... I was stunned, truly, to see the designs. The perfect amalgamation of flesh and metal, weaponised and poised to strike. Exactly as I would have done.”

Moira smiles, something like pride gleaming in her one red eye. The blue one behind the metal remains flat, expressionless. “We’re more alike than you think, you and I. Together, we could achieve so much.”

“He is a human being, a man, not a weapon. Genji.” Angela tries to say it firmly, with authority, but she’s shaking so much it’s all she can do to choke out his name. Another relationship, another person close to her, that Moira has infiltrated. Is nothing precious anymore? Does nothing belong to her and her alone? “I saved his life. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“So the shuriken slots in his forearms, the reload mechanism, the enhanced vertical leap, he had all those before? What an impressive lad.” Moira chuckles. “These are more than repairs, Angela, more than cybernetic enhancements. You remade him, piece by piece, fitted him with a cyborg body designed by the most precise hand to kill, and you expect me to believe that was all out of the goodness of your heart? That you harboured no ulterior motive, or at the very least followed no directives? I know you think me evil, Angela, but surely you don’t think me stupid.”

The tide above surges loud enough to be heard by the both of them, the layers of soundproof materials somewhat nullified by the doors Angela left open in her hasty journey into the belly of the Earth. The Mediterranean Sea that borders Watchpoint: Gibraltar stirs, and so does she. Angela narrows her eyes.

“What about you? What you did to Gabriel... to Reaper.” Angela bites her tongue, corrects herself. Even now, when the very sky seems held in place with nothing more than a few strips of medical tape, attention to detail is important. It’s all she has left.

“Moira, the preservation of a life that should long ago have been extinguished... Did it ever occur to you that it would have been better if you had allowed that flame to burn out? Have you for one second considered the unimaginable pain not only your experiments have been subject to, but that even those you’ve ‘cured’ suffer as well? All in the name of science?”

“My dear, sweet Angela. That’s your problem, you know. You see the details, the brush strokes.”

“And what do you see?”

“I see the painting, Angie. I see the gallery it hangs in. I see the bigger picture. And then, I do what needs to be done.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but I had some sudden inspiration for how Angela would deal with the immediate aftermath of the first chapter and just had to post it, length be damned. Let me know what you think!

Tea and whiskey. It sounded an unusual combination, to be sure, but hardly one she had pioneered. Moira had often prepared the drink, when the nights grew long and the laboratory grew lonely. A hot toddy, she’d called it, explaining how each beverage had been a staple in the British Isles for centuries; why not mix them together?

Angela recalled her first time vividly. It was one night in mid-October, or perhaps early morning was more apt; the last lab assistant had left, abandoning two mugs of still-steeping tea on a disinfected countertop.

“Honey?”

Moira’s voice jolted Angela out of her work-induced reverie, her body responding physically to the shock. The lab report she had been filling out slipped between her splayed fingers and floated, noiselessly, to the floor. Embarrassed, Angela took a breath, bent to retrieve the stray papers, stood, exhaled, and turned around. One action after the other, calculated, methodical. Routine was the best cure for anxiety, though what she had to be anxious about in her own laboratory, she didn’t know.

Upon rising to her feet, Angela became acutely aware of the tightness of her pencil skirt, the way it clung to her thighs like a second skin. How it would have looked with her bent over, stretching the tips of her fingers to gather the medical loose-leaf. She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the mauve silk with twitching fingers, similarly aware of the matching flush creeping up her neck.

“Excuse me?”

The other woman was poised over the mugs, holding a carton of milk in one slender hand and a bottle of honey in the other. “Do you take your tea with honey, Dr. Ziegler? We’ve run out of cream and sugar, I’m afraid.” She cocked one eyebrow, languidly pulling her mouth into a knowing smile.

“Oh. Right.” Angela brushed her fringe out of her face and cleared her throat. “Yes, please, Dr. O’Deorain.”

She watched, transfixed, as Moira first retrieved the teabags, added a splash of milk to each concoction - a little less in her own, Angela noticed - then a drizzle of honey in the second. Next, she produced a silver flask from somewhere on her person, revealing a black dress shirt underneath her pristine white lab coat, half-unbuttoned.  “Whiskey. To take the edge off,” she explained as she poured a little of the amber liquid in each mug. She tucked the flask back inside her lab coat, winking.

Angela felt her pulse quicken when she saw that Moira’s coat remained open, the pocketed flask weighing heavy on the flat planes of her chest.

Finally, Moira slid the lighter drink across the countertop with all the finesse of a bartender, where it came to rest a neat two inches from the edge, and Angela grasped it with grateful, anticipatory fingers.

To her surprise, it hadn’t tasted bad, though she’d sooner die than admit it. Hardly her favourite beverage, but not terrible by a long shot, and as Moira’d promised, it did take the edge off.

Now, Fareeha Amari towered over her instead, easily as tall the Irish woman had been but possessing none of the qualities which had always made her so deliciously intimidating. Despite her toned physique, Fareeha was soft, playful, a fact evidenced in every move and gesture. When it came to Fareeha, Angela could never be afraid.

Except for her safety, which at this precise moment was the reason for the drink she clutched so protectively, and for the fire already beginning to kindle in her belly.

“Isn’t it a little late for caffeine?” Fareeha jokes, squatting beside Angela and gently prising the mug from her iron grip. Angela sighs, then tenses as she sees the other woman raise it to her lips.

“No, Fareeha-”

Fareeha grimaces, setting the mug gingerly back on the desk. She lets go a little too early; it clatters on the varnished wood, contents sloshing, uncomfortably loud. Both women wince.

“Ah. I see.”

Angela buries her head in her hands. “I’m so sorry, Fareeha. I didn’t want you to have to see me this way.”

“Hey, hey now,” Fareeha coos, lacing her fingers around each of Angela’s wrists in makeshift bracelets and tugging them away from her face. The doctor was tired, pink around the eyes and in the cheeks, irises almost swallowed by hungry, dilated pupils. “In sickness and in health, remember?” Fareeha smiles, and Angela smiles, too, her eyes welling with tears.

“For better or for worse,” she agrees in a thick voice, wiping her eyes on the shoulder of her cardigan. “Though it seems ‘for worse’ is in the cards for us this hand.”

And then the room is gone and she is in Fareeha’s arms, face buried in her broad chest, nostrils full of freshly-washed cotton-blend and some earthy, woodsy scent. The action is soothing in its familiarity, and Angela finds a somewhat concerning amount of solace in feeling so isolated from the world around her, so segregated.

But when Fareeha presses her lips to her forehead, all she can smell is whiskey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another short update, I'm sorry, but things should really start to pick up after this! Including chapter length >> In the meantime, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

“She knows too much. I’m afraid I don’t see another option.”

Angela snaps to attention, abandoning the whorls she’d been tracing in the wood with an unvarnished finger moments before. Before now, she’d been silent, refusing to participate in the meeting at hand. She had declared her abstinence from the vote to decide the fate of their captive, attending as more of a witness than anything else. It was these words, spoken in Ana Amari’s most clipped, matter-of-fact tone, that finally roused her to speech. “Captain Amari! What do you mean?”

Ana shrugs, clasping her hands on the tabletop and leaning forward, so the tip of her braid tickles her weathered hands. “You know what I mean, Angela. It’s exactly what she deserves. She’d be tried and executed by the state anyway, if we handed her over, and we can’t risk her escaping. The authorities have proven sloppy with that sort of thing before. Nor can we keep her here indefinitely when she refuses to talk; it’s a drain on resources.”

“So we kill her? We’re murderers now, are we?” Angela turns to Morrison, her voice pleading. “Jack. Surely you won’t let this happen.” His face - what little of it that can be seen, between the scarring and his mask - remains impassive, his gaze downcast.

“Winston? Fareeha?” Angela begs. If anyone can be convinced, surely it is these two, these Overwatch agents with the absolute strongest of moral compasses. Winston, who initiated Recall, whose unwavering belief in his friends is the reason for their return; and her own Fareeha, to whom justice is of the most singular importance, who has dreamed of joining Overwatch since she was a little girl.

“She’s hurt us, Dr. Ziegler,” Fareeha interjects, addressing Angela in the formal, full-titled way they’ve agreed upon when in a professional setting. This is how they know the other is being serious, that their words are non-negotiable. “Overwatch remains an illegal operation, but not for long once the world sees how we can help them. O’Deorain jeopardises that. If we were caught harbouring a Talon fugitive, how could the public ever trust us again? She’s hurt us...”

Fareeha trails off and raises her brown eyes to meet Angela’s blue ones. “She’s hurt you. I cannot allow that. It isn’t just.”

“And killing someone is?” Angela retorts, practically spitting. “I don’t believe that. Murder is never justice!”

“My daughter is right, Angela,” Ana says. She speaks deliberately, and her dark eyes soften at the corners, enfolded in crows’ feet that speak of wisdom more than equal to her years. “Sometimes, for the greater good, sacrifices must be made.”

There’s the scrape of chair legs on wood, of furniture being pushed back. Even Jack flinches at the harsh sound. In the east corner of the room, sky-coloured curtains billow over the open window, throwing a rectangle of light on the round table directly atop her clenched fists. Angela looks across the slew of agents seated before her, throat burning with a thousand words unspoken. Which can she say to make them understand?

“That’s exactly what Moira would say,” Angela says finally, ignoring the sigh that comes from her right. She sets her jaw and presses onwards, looking each agent square in the face as she speaks. Fewer than half of them return the gesture. “That was why she travelled to Oasis in the first place, why she defected to Talon when we turned her away. That’s why she does any of the things she does. ‘For the greater good.’ But you said it yourself: Talon is illegal, Overwatch is illegal... What makes us any better? If we do this, what makes us any _different_?”

Her impassioned speech has had an impact, she can see; there’s a dent in even Captain Amari’s resolve. A chink in the armour. Now may be her only chance to strike, to sway this decision.

“And she has spoken, Ana,” Angela continues, addressing the captain by name. “Have you told them that? Moira spoke to me, the first night she arrived. She came to us, of her own accord. Surely that means she’s willing to negotiate. And if that’s the case, the things we can find out... Knowledge is power, and she has a wealth of it. We would be foolish not to take advantage of that.”

After a beat, Ana sighs again, unclasping her hands and spreading her fingers out on the table. “You’re reaching, Angela. She has spoken, yes, but only to you. Would you be willing to spend every moment possible with her, through her interrogation, her rehabilitation and reintegration? Through her re-education, if need be?”

Fareeha inhales sharply, but bites her tongue. Arguments will come later. Now is not the time to speak out of turn.

Sliding back into her chair, Angela inclines her head. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Then we’ve come to an agreement. O’Deorain will remain in our custody, under strict supervision, until further notice. Interrogation will commence immediately, over which Angela is in charge. All non-lethal techniques of acquiring information are available at her discretion and should be employed when appropriate.”

The directives are succinct, fair, and far more than Angela had ever hoped for. She suppresses a smile, then looks up to see Ana giving a smile of her own.

“Angela, you can deliver the good news.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written decently-sized updates for a multi-chapter fic in ages, I'm so rusty! D: Regardless, I tried my best to make this chapter flow well and feel exciting despite my debilitating inability to plot, so fingers crossed it reads that way. As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think!

The air trembles as the woman above her gives a dark chuckle, Moira’s slender frame silhouetted against the quickly fading grey light. Her shadow draws nearer, pinning Angela to the bench, her chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath.

“Oh, how I’ve waited for this moment, Angela,” Moira breathes, tracing one sharp-nailed finger down Angela’s flushed cheek and along her quivering jaw. The darkness feels oppressive, settling above them like a thunderhead, but Angela can’t say with any semblance of truth that the pressure of the other woman straddling her waist is anywhere near as unpleasant.

“Moira,” Angela whispers, the word melting into a sigh of concession. In her voice is surrender, unmistakable, one that has not been coerced, but rather willingly given. She’s waited for this moment for God only knows how long, too; what’s the point in resisting any longer? Angela bucks her hips upwards against Moira’s, the friction alone eliciting a moan, and Moira laughs again, dragging her hand back up the way it had come, tangling her long fingers in Angela’s blonde hair and tugging.

Refusing to give in so quickly, Moira smirks, incisors sharp and gleaming in the night air. A cool breeze spills from the barred windows overhead and tickles at Angela’s bare chest, raising goosebumps on her exposed flesh. “This is how it was always meant to be, my dear. You and I, allies, together in an unstoppable partnership. If only you had come around sooner...” She trails off and leans forward, achingly close, one hand still fisted tightly in Angela’s hair, and finally presses a long, lingering kiss to her panting lips.

“Moira!” Angela cries, bolting upright. She travels right through her, the apparition disappearing in a ray of morning light. Her legs are ensnared in a tangle of sheets, damp with cold sweat and, she’s embarrassed to find, more than a little evidence of the nature of her dream between her thighs.

It is not evening, nor is she sharing Moira’s cell. It is the dawn of a new day, her first day working with Moira, first for information and later towards her rehabilitation. This is supposed to be a fresh start. How can she work towards such a thing when she is so clearly biased, haunted by feelings that are anything but fresh?

She takes breakfast in her quarters, knowing didn’t have a hope of facing her friends in the dining hall. Whoever’s been assigned kitchen duty - most likely Genji, Angela thinks with a smile, hazily trying to recall this week’s roster - has given her extra raspberries alongside the meagre oatmeal pancakes, as well as a small side of honey for her usually unsweetened tea. She’s too anxious to savour it; she eats breakfast, drinks the tea, but keeps a handful of raspberries, wrapping them in a handkerchief and tucking them gently inside the drawer by her bedside.

A glance at the clock confirms there’s no time for a shower, not if she wants to arrive early enough to make preparations. Angela wipes away the sweat and stickiness of the previous night with a damp cloth, dresses quickly in a black turtleneck, trousers and her white lab coat, and, almost as an afterthought, tucks a worn piece of paper into her pants’ pocket before leaving the blank simplicity of her quarters, knowing that no part of the task ahead will be simple.

Agent Oxton is already outside, bouncing on the balls of her feet, waiting to accompany her to the interrogation room. Just as she’d volunteered to do; just as she said she’d be. As energetic and spontaneous as Lena can be, she’s nothing if not reliable when it comes to her friends.

“You don’t have to do this, y’know,” Lena says after a while, eyes on the floor. There’s a natural bounce to her step that keeps her perfectly in pace with Angela, even with her shorter stature. It has nothing to do with her mood - both of them are sombre as can be this morning, sobered by yesterday’s meeting, by the whole sorry state of the world, probably - and little to do with the contraption strapped to her chest, either, Angela suspects. It’s just how Lena is, and Angela couldn’t be more grateful.

“I know you didn’t like what the captain was saying, none of us do, but there’s another way, there’s gotta be. We just have to find it, y’know? We can still try. You don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” Angela replies.

Lena sighs, skidding to a stop. “Well, I’m glad y’think so, because we’re here.” She jerks her head to their right, indicating a solitary, unmarked door, and gives a weak smile. Despite her promotion, she’s wearing her old cadet’s cap, from back in the day, or maybe someone else’s. It seems a little ill-fitting, but she’s clearly attached to it. She keeps running one hand along the brim, a nervous tic. “No take-backs from here on in.”

“Thank you, Tracer,” Angela nods.

“I’ll be here later, escort you back when you’re done. Good luck, doc.” Lena raises her hand to her forehead in a two-fingered salute and disappears down the corridor. For anyone else, it would be faster to go back the way they had come, but Angela knows well enough that speed is no issue where Lena Oxton is concerned.

It’s a testament to her own bargaining skills that Lena leaves at all, leaving Angela entirely to her own devices once she enters the interrogation room. Of course, the arrangement was not without compromise: the room is installed with a one-way mirror, unmanned at present, though Moira will be able to recognise the potential threat immediately, and, it’s assumed, act accordingly. There are several state-of-the art security cameras hidden in each corner of the room and microphones that would be sensitive to the paw-tread of a newborn mouse tucked into secret crevices, all of the information from which flows directly to Winston’s lab, where their conversation will no doubt be analysed countless times, now or later being anyone’s guess.

Moira is also chained to the table in the centre of the room, held in place with cuffs equipped to electrify and incapacitate their target at a moment’s notice, the trigger for which is attached to the inside of Angela’s left sleeve.

Angela sinks into the seat opposite her captive, each of Moira’s watchful eyes trained almost curiously on her every movement.

“So, um. Dr. O’Deorain. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m the agent currently in charge of your, um, care, and...”

Angela can’t help but jump when Moira barks out a laugh, then bites her tongue, stifling it. Perhaps more surprising, she keeps the sliver of pink wedged between her teeth, as if out of politeness, to prevent another outburst. Angela shivers and pries her gaze away, casting it downwards. She knows this is a sign of submission, senses that her body language is all wrong, that she’s giving her enemy too much power over her, but her own body feels beyond her control. Desperate, she fumbles for the paper in her pocket, nails scrabbling against the tightly woven fabric.

“And, um... Ah...”

Her fingers finally close around the paper. A bead of sweat rolls down her spine, moistens the waistband of her trousers.

“Captain Amari wants to kill you,” Angela says curtly, steeling herself as she lifts her head to look directly at Moira. She tightens her fist around the note in her pocket until it’s nothing more than a crush of ink-stained, unreadable notepad paper. This is unscripted, so far from the notes she had prepared for today’s session, but she’s beyond caring.

“She wants you executed for what you’ve done, and even if the others don’t like it, no one was going to stand in her way. Except me. And you probably think me weak for that, but you’re wrong. Respect for life is not weakness. This is not the easy choice. This is the hard one, and I’m here anyway. So you’re going to listen to me, and you’re going to talk, and you’re going to try your absolute damnedest to help me help you, or I’ll make the same easy choices they want to. I’ll take the same shortcuts you did with all your experiments, and we’ll see what you consider weakness then.”

The words are heavy, dangling in the air with the same weight as the button tucked under her left arm. The power of life and death, sitting pretty in the palm of Angela Ziegler’s hand.

For a moment, Moira is silent, tongue tucked firmly back inside her mouth and her face painstakingly unreadable. Then she throws her head back and bursts into peals of laughter, unbridled and bubbling, that echo off the empty walls until Angela thinks the sound will ring in her dreams.

“Oh, Angela! I’d applaud you, if you didn’t have me chained up with this torture contraption of yours.”

Angela is so shocked it’s practically comical. If this moment were a panel in a comic-book, her eyes would be bugging out of her head, her jaw resting on the floor.

“Truly, that was terrific, although I assure you that all the theatrics were entirely unnecessary. I have every intention of complying with any and all your wishes, my dear. Still, I can’t say I would have chosen this to happen any other way. What a show of power! I’m so thoroughly impressed by you, my dear.”

Angela is still too stunned to form a coherent response, her mind still preoccupied with the implications of Moira’s monologue.

_Any and all your wishes..._

The Irishwoman laughs again, a chuckle this time, and both her eyes sparkle with unprecedented excitement. “So, Dr. Ziegler. Let’s get started!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? It's been like, four months since I last posted, you say? *sweats nervously* Oh, uh... whoops

The first month passes with relative ease, far quicker than Angela had expected. Even more surprising is the ease with which she slips into the project itself, finding an unexpected degree of comfort in the routine: beginning each day at 0800 hours sharp, wearing the same pressed trouser pants, tucking the same clipboard under her arm, jotting down pages and pages of physical notes that she spends the evenings transcribing into her standard-issue holopad. Admissions and confessions, plans and secrets, all handed over with a willingness that seemed too good to be true.

Sessions never strayed from the interrogation room, but in the month that’s passed it’s been made more homely, if that were possible for a room made entirely of flat steel; cushions have been added to the seats of both rigid metal chairs, the white fluorescents overhead programmed with a softer, more yellow light that simulates the warmth of sunshine. The stark centre table has been switched out for a desk with a drawer, where Angela keeps some of her favourite pens, a few spare hair-ties, and, most recently, an opened packet of peppermints - Moira’s old favourites.

After a while, Angela even took to her lab coat with a needle scavenged from one of the rec rooms, detaching the button for Moira’s cuffs from its left arm and slipping it inside, too. There it would remain accessible should she ever need it, but enough out of the way that its power no longer weighed her down.

That old adage: Out of sight, out of mind.

It was precisely as the memory of her old colleague had been, before all this. Though on those long and sleepless nights before the recall, and sometimes even afterwards, who was to say that same rule still applied? Her dreams had certainly never agreed.

“So, the technology you’ve been working on of late,” Angela says, crossing her ankles, clipboard in hand. “You know that’s Overwatch’s key interest.”

“Indeed. Yours and the rest of the world’s,” Moira says, smirking, and moves to rest one bony ankle on the opposite knee, so her leg juts out in a triangle of negative space: the sprawling, cross-legged stance typical of most men. She leans back in her chair, cuffed hands outstretched, and tucks them behind her head.

Angela realises that she has never taken much notice of what Moira wears to these sessions. After all, as a doctor, her attention is better directed at her patient’s face, particularly when it comes to psychotherapy. Angela also knows that a good doctor has enough attention to spare for the smaller details, the ones other, less sensible people might forget.

Today, she’s wearing oversized tan slacks. The bagginess indicated they were hand-me-downs rather than something found in her old wardrobe, like an old piece of uniform. It also accentuates her slender ankles. On the opposite end of the spectrum, a tight-fitting button-up shirt hugs her torso, revealing more than it hides. This, in its black familiarity, might well have been something the woman owned, long ago, when she was younger and smaller and perhaps even less morally ambiguous.

Definitely younger and smaller, though. In fact, the shirt looks uncomfortably tight, a problem which its wearer has cleverly bypassed by leaving the top three or so buttons undone. As Angela watches, the laugh lines on other side of Moira’s mouth deepen with her smirk, and the muscles at the hollow of her porcelain neck flex accordingly.

Averting her eyes back to her clipboard, Angela continues, swallowing hard.

“Right. Well, most of its development is public knowledge, anyway.” Her mind harks back to that controversial medical paper published so long ago, in which her own nanotech research had been cited. “But back then you always insisted that you’d conducted your own research, and what little you did cite in your paper was provided willingly, even if certain others disagreed.”

The implication is obvious, the threat only thinly veiled. Just as Angela had been the most outspoken about the plagiarism inherent in her research then, she wouldn’t be afraid to speak the truth now, nor would she adjourn their session today without some sort of confirmation of her suspicions.

Moira grins and leans forward, flashing sharp white canines that send a thrill down Angela’s spine.

“You know you’re right, Angela. Why ask? Isn’t it best to trust your gut, rather than rely on the confession of a villain like me?”

Angela leans forward, too, leans into Moira until their faces are mere inches apart. She parts her lips, feels Moira’s cool breath on her teeth.

“I know. Say it.”

“Fine. I stole your research, reverse-engineered your nano-biotic technology without your knowledge or your consent, and created something that would decay a person’s very cellular structure rather than repair it, as you’d always intended. It possesses absolutely no medical benefits; it was designed purely as a weapon.”

The words are stamped in the air between them, rather than hand-printed or penned. There’s something mechanical about them, so matter-of-fact that the knowledge they bring almost hurts more than if they had been stained with guilt, but only almost.

For the first time, Angela’s hand twitches toward the drawer, towards the button, the cuff-trigger that will shock the woman across from her until she cannot remember so much as her own name. The hand twitches again, then continues, on and on towards the handle. Upon contact, the handle is cool, just like the rest of the base, in spite of the Mediterranean heat above.

“It wasn’t out of disrespect for human life, nor was it for personal gain,” Moira says. “Heaven knows I could have made a fortune selling these inventions to warlords in the East, or to countless anti-omnic urban terrorist groups, but I didn’t. I developed this technology in Oasis laboratories and lent my skills to Talon because I believe in their cause. I can’t claim my methods don’t cause harm; in fact, I know they do, but it’s all for the greater good. The bigger picture, the things you don’t see. Progress comes at a price, Angela.”

“The difference being, you aren’t the one to pay that price. You take risks you never have to suffer for.”

“You think I haven’t suffered?” Moira replies incredulously, her voice at least one or two decibels higher, risen in an uncharacteristic slip of composure. She flexes her left arm, sending purple veins shifting underneath the sallow skin. The deadened fingers twitch, erratic and somehow inhuman, outstretched as much as possible while still being restrained, wriggling in Angela’s direction.

Moira gives a wry smile and narrows her eyes. “There aren’t many volunteers for human experimentation, you know.”

Angela inhales sharply. Obviously, she’s seen this before, theorised endlessly about what could have caused such decay. The agent, a reversal of Angela’s own technology, was obvious, but the idea that this was deliberate and sacrificial, rather than the result of an unfortunate lab accident, makes her skin crawl.

Instinctively, she reaches out an inquisitive hand, her fingers a hair’s breadth from the tips of Moira’s nails, before withdrawing. She lets out a gust of breath.

“To what lengths won’t you go, Moira?” Angela says, disgusted. “How far is far enough?”

“There is no end goal but progress, Angela, and in the name of progress I’ll do what needs to be done.” Moira’s eyes flash, something predatory lurking in their murky depths. “But I’m a selfish creature, dear. There are some things…”

She licks her lips, not breaking eye contact for a second. “There are some things so pleasurable even I would be hesitant to give them up.”

Angela doesn’t reply, not only because she doesn’t want to give Moira the satisfaction, but because she doesn’t need to; there’ll be plenty of opportunity for re-enactment of this exact scene in her dreams tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, Pharah-centric chapter. I know it's not Moicy (which is definitely endgame here!) but I thought it was important to show how the people in Mercy's life are responding to the Moira situation - plus, with Pharmercy as an established relationship, it only makes sense. Hopefully there's still enough Moira to keep you guys interested!

“What was she like, before?”

Angela is seated at the desk in Fareeha’s quarters, flicking through reams of Moira-related digital files on her holopad. There’s a mug of coffee next to her, black, long gone cold. She takes a sip, wincing at the bitterness, then tosses back the remains in one go.

Fareeha herself has sprawled on her back across the bed, throwing a baseball into the air with her right hand and catching with her left, then reversing and repeating. The movement is effortless, a single-balled juggle. The only sound in the room, before the question broke the silence, was the steady smack of her skin against its surface; now the ball remains in Fareeha’s hands, rolled from fingertip to fingertip in a pendulum-esque fashion.

There’s no need to ask who she means.

“She was… Different,” Angela says, spinning around in her chair to face her partner. It’s stating the obvious, but it feels the best place to start. Fareeha nods to fill the space; Angela takes another breath, then continues.

“She was hard-working. We didn’t often share a lab, especially after her transfer to Blackwatch, but still, I noticed how late she stayed, always tinkering with some new formula. Adding a little of this, subtracting some of that, taking copious notes on everything. Once, I stole a glance at some of her work – before we got into the practice of sharing, that is – and she’d analysed the influence of a new ingredient on the effervescence of one of her compounds. The bubbles! What importance could she possibly see in the bubbles?”

The memory makes her want to laugh, and she almost does, before remembering that Fareeha has no such history with the women currently in their quarters. To her, she’s a criminal, a traitor, and nothing more, something for which Angela can’t blame her.

Perhaps, though, some anecdote from their shared past, something to show a little of the humanity that once resided inside her colleague, could soften Fareeha’s resolve. The perfect soldier, she would never question her superiors. Since Moira’s treatment has been approved by Captain Amari, it is a certainty that she will not oppose it. But Angela needs more than passive non-opposition to make this arrangement work long-term – she needs her support.

“She always wore black button-up shirts underneath her lab coat; she’d never be caught dead in something without a collar, or in a dress. I never heard her swear in English, not because she didn’t, but because she’d always revert back to Gaelic. All the better to berate her bosses with.”

Fareeha’s face remains impassive, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but Angela presses on, leaning slightly forward in her chair. A wisp of blonde falls over her face and stays there, her hands otherwise preoccupied animating her words.

“She always took whiskey in her tea. She wore dark clothes, but harboured a secret love for the colour yellow.” Angela absentmindedly fingers her hair, an unconscious tic that doesn’t go unnoticed by Fareeha.

“She was actually very fun at parties. Neither of us were very good at baking – it’s so much easier to eat microwaved meals and pre-prepared rations when you work such long hours – but she’d always make such an effort to bring a plate of something special. When I asked her how she’d improved so suddenly, she told me the answer was right under her nose the whole time: just think of it like chemistry, and a lava cake is no different from a child’s volcanic science experiment.”

The bed suddenly creaks. Fareeha rolls over onto her stomach to give Angela a long, lingering stare. It feels almost as if she’s staring through her, into her very being, rather than maintaining any sort of eye contact – nor is she shying away from displaying such obvious scrutiny, either. Angela almost cringes away from the sheer intensity of it, but holds her ground.

“You were together, weren’t you?”

The question is frank, untainted by any emotion, so why does Angela’s breath hitch in her throat with guilt? Because she’d had partners before this one?

 _Not because I had other partners,_ she thinks. _Because I had_ that _partner._

“Not ‘together’ as such, no. We did become romantically involved, very briefly. We shared more and more of our work, our time…” Angela trails off, allowing Fareeha to fill in the blanks.

“That was when she stole your work.”

Angela remembers the night before she knew, the night before it all went wrong, with such perfect clarity that it floats to the surface without even being compelled. It was a night of fancy-dress, the height of the era of Overwatch. A pre-emptive celebration of the research that was to be debuted the next day by joint researchers Dr. Ziegler and Dr. O’Deorain.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you publish something associated with my name,” Angela had giggled, hiccupping, “without me having even seen it.” Champagne sloshed over the side of her glass, staining her white gloves. “I must be crazy!”

Something flashed behind Moira’s eyes then, gone too fast for Angela to identify it. Years later, she entertained the notion that it might have been shame, the slightest of tremors in Moira’s resolve. But not enough to put a stop to her manipulation, nor to withdraw the paper.

Then Moira had whisked Angela away, the bright lights of the party fading behind them, morphing into candlelight glow she’d become familiar with in their apartment. She’d lain on sheets just like the ones Fareeha sits on now, and envisioned a future entirely different from what she’d gotten.

“She wasn’t so destructive then,” Angela says in a small voice, wrenching herself back into the present “She hadn’t yet cracked the code of my technology, but she was well on her way. The scandal came when people saw the experiments she’d been doing with the tech that already existed; on rabbits, mostly, but there were a few human trials I’d never seen before, among other things. And all of it under my name.”

“Angie…” Fareeha sits up, drawing her knees up under her chin and wrapping her arms around her shins. “That’s terrible.” She sounds sympathetic, but the distance between them remains uncrossed, something Fareeha has never been known to do. There’s hesitation coiled in her voice, her expression. “It’s terrifying, to think that we cannot even trust the people we love.”

Angela recognises the message underneath the words, can feel that their bond has been shaken. It was inevitable from the moment Moira arrived; the Irishwoman isn’t the only one with secrets in her past.

She sniffs, reaching out a hand that comes to rest, tentative, on Fareeha’s knee.

“That isn’t even the part that scares me the most,” Angela confesses, hanging her head in shame. Fareeha's jaw tightens in anticipation.

“What scares me the most is wondering how much of it I would have allowed her to get away with, if she had only trusted _me_.”


End file.
